


Things With Feathers

by Sholio



Category: Iron Fist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Cuddling & Snuggling, Getting Together, M/M, Season/Series 01, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25076848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: It was the last straw, really, when Ward's dead childhood frenemy Danny Rand came back not just grown up, not merely with magic kung fu powers, but withwings.
Relationships: Ward Meachum/Danny Rand
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64
Collections: Wingfic Exchange June 2020





	Things With Feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).



It was the last straw, really, when Ward's dead childhood frenemy Danny Rand came back not just grown up, not merely with magic kung fu powers, but with _wings._ The worst part was that Danny treated his wings like they were perfectly normal.

"Everyone in K'un-Lun has wings, Ward," he said during one of his forays into Ward's office, after Harold revealed himself and Danny came back to the company and moved into his dad's old office. He was sitting on the edge of Ward's desk because chairs didn't really work for him all that well anymore. His wings cascaded over the edge of the desk in a waterfall of golden fluff.

Ward glared at him. His head hurt and his entire nervous system had the tense edge that meant _more drugs now_ and it wasn't fair for Danny to be hanging out in here being all friendly and ... wing-y at him. Ward had tried to kill him, and Danny _knew_ that. "Yeah, well, people here don't."

"I know," Danny said, somewhat testily. "I _do_ remember being a kid here. And I have, you know ... eyes."

"So how in the hell did _you_ end up with wings, anyway?" He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, because asking questions like that was the best way to end up spending the next 20 minutes listening to one of Danny's completely bonkers K'un-Lun stories. 

But this time Danny didn't take the bait. He just frowned and, very unusually for Danny, clammed up. "It was a long time ago, Ward," he said, and hopped down off the edge of the desk. His wing flung out involuntarily and whacked into Ward's computer. "Oh, sorry --" He spun around with those unnervingly fast reflexes he apparently had now, and caught it, but the draft of his wings as they whipped around swept a morning's worth of paperwork off Ward's desk, all over the floor. "Aargh, sorry about that too. I'll pick it up --"

"How about you go back to _your_ office and do _your_ work and don't bother me," Ward said between his teeth.

It was only after Danny had apologized his way out the door that Ward noticed he'd left a feather behind on the desk, perfectly formed and downy and about four inches long.

Ward started to drop it into the wastebasket and then, for reasons he couldn't name, put it in his desk drawer. The pills were in there too. He swallowed one and closed his eyes, and wondered for a moment what was so traumatizing about _a pair of fucking wings_ that Danny "I am the Immortal Iron Fist" didn't want to talk about it. Especially when Danny would cheerfully talk about wing grooming to anyone who'd listen. But about where the wings had come from, not a word. Other than having gotten them in the mystic monk city.

Like he cared, Ward told himself, as the soft warmth of narcotics rolled through his veins and dulled the edge of the turmoil. He had much more important problems than Danny Fucking Rand and his damn wings.

*

Danny's wings were gold and brown. They looked incredibly soft, downy soft, like they would be nice to touch, or to wrap up in.

They were also amazingly inconvenient. Danny couldn't seem to walk through a room or turn around without knocking things over or scattering papers. He couldn't easily sit on normal furniture, so he just sat on whatever was handy: the edges of desks, the backs of couches, the floor.

He molted continually. Ward soon found out that _he_ wasn't special, having a wing feather of Danny's. Everyone had Danny's wing feathers, from the secretarial pool to the janitorial staff.

Reporters _loved_ Danny. Everyone was wildly curious about the wings, of course, even in a city that had seen aliens and superheroes and a bulletproof man up in Harlem. But also, Danny was cheerful and friendly and personable -- all the things Ward was not, and even Joy wasn't _that_ good at. Danny was a natural, just as he always had been, the kind of person who everyone automatically liked. It had been annoying when they were children and was no less annoying now, but at least it was convenient, with the company having a bit of a PR image due to the Staten Island plant situation. Danny was a loose cannon, you never knew what was going to come out of his mouth next, but the wings combined with his natural people-pleaser personality were a better distraction than anything Ward could have come up with. 

Which of course was exactly what Dad had been thinking. Ward had wondered what the fuck his dad was up to, sticking Danny into the company after they'd found him perched curiously on a flagpole outside Harold's penthouse window. But this was it. Probably.

That and just ... _having_ Danny. Ward had seen the covetous look on his dad's face when Harold watched the security footage of Danny in the Rand offices, back in the first couple of days, when they were both scrambling around trying to figure out what to do about the Rand heir or imposter who had fallen into their laps. Harold had looked at Danny, _still_ looked at Danny, like he was a specimen in a zoo, a valuable object that Harold wanted to add to his collection of valuable but ultimately disposable things. Harold had objected to Ward trying to damage Danny not because of any concern for Danny's wellbeing, but because Danny was pretty and rare, and Harold didn't want him broken before he could put him on a shelf and figure out what use Danny could be to him.

And what kind of moral ground did Ward have to stand on? He'd sent his men to beat up Danny. He'd tried to get Danny and his wings locked up in a government lab, and Danny Iron Fisting his way out was the only reason he was still free and ... intact.

Ward thought of that, sometimes. He didn't want to. The drugs were supposed to help him _not_ think about things like that. But it was hard not to, with Danny constantly underfoot around the Rand offices, leaving shed feathers in inconvenient places, grinning at Ward as if the past didn't matter, as if they could still be friends no matter how many times Ward had hurt and betrayed him. As if Ward hadn't set him up to be experimented on and dissected and god only knew what else.

He was too high-profile now, though. Ward wondered if Harold had thought through _that_ aspect of it. Danny was now the darling of the New York tabloids, the miraculously alive, miraculously winged heir to the Rand corporate empire. Harold couldn't just make him disappear now, even if he wanted to. There would be too many questions. It was a layer of safety, and in some private corner of his head, Ward was glad.

*

The look on Danny's face when he realized Ward had betrayed him to the Hand would follow Ward to his dying day. But that was nothing compared to the sick jolt that went through Ward's stomach when one of Bakuto's men brought out a pair of bolt cutters.

"What's that for?" Danny asked, naive and oblivious to the end. 

"I don't want to use it." Bakuto was smiling. Ward couldn't speak, or even breathe. "But your wings, as we've all seen, are a little too effective in a fight. And they would make it _far_ too easy for you to escape."

"What, that's for -- no!" Danny took an abrupt step backward, visibly paling. "I gave you my word. I won't fight, and I won't escape."

"The word of the Immortal Iron Fist," Bakuto said quietly. "You'll forgive me if that's not enough."

Danny was breathing fast, clearly frightened, and Ward thought it might finally be sinking in what he'd gotten himself into. Or, no: what _Ward_ had gotten him into. 

"Tie them," Ward said, startling himself. Harold shot him a look he knew, a look that said _Shut up or you know what'll happen to you._ And Danny was looking at him with that betrayed, hurt look again. "Tie his wings so he can't fly. That's the same thing, isn't it? And you can ... untie them. If you need him to fly later."

 _Can't you understand,_ he wanted to say to Danny, who was still looking at him with those wounded eyes. _We can't get out of here past all of them. This is ... it's a chance, isn't it? It's better than ..._

But he couldn't even finish the thought, his justifications turning to bitter ashes on his tongue.

"I loathe a betrayer," Bakuto said, his cool gaze raking over Ward. "But he does have a point. Breaking your wings, taking them off -- there's no easy fix for that. We will tie them ... if you agree, Iron Fist."

"I ... I ... yes, I guess so," Danny said, not looking at Ward or anyone else in the room.

Ward had to wrench his gaze away from Bakuto's men wrapping ropes around Danny's soft feathers. But then he made himself look, at the ropes sinking in between the feathers, binding Danny's wings into an awkward and (from the look on Danny's face) painful bundle on his back. It was cruel and obscene, the sort of thing Harold would enjoy -- and he looked away then, but it was too late: too late to run from what he'd wrought, too late to pretend he wasn't part of this.

But not too late, maybe, to start making better choices, even if he had no hope that Danny would ever forgive him for it.

*

Ward was dazed and out of it -- being concussed with a golf club would do that to you -- but he was looking in exactly the right direction when Danny came swooping in and shattered the office window behind Harold's desk, and for the first time he realized that when Danny used the Iron Fist, his wings lit up too, in blazing arcs of pure gold light.

*

Ward stumbled up to the roof, gun in hand. He'd lost touch with Danny's friend Colleen in the mess down there; she was busy dealing with Harold's goons. He could have used the backup, but all he could think of was finding Danny. And Dad.

It was raining up here, a light driving rain, mixing with the warm blood trickling down the back of his neck. Ward didn't know how well Danny flew in the rain, but he could only imagine that it might weigh down Danny's feathers, soak the fragile strands that caught the air. (The feather strands Ward had examined in his office, brushing with his fingertips, wondering at the softness.) He looked around, his bruised head throbbing, and stumbled toward the edge of the roof. Surely they couldn't be -- they hadn't gone over -- 

"Harold!" Danny's voice yelled, and Ward looked up.

Danny was silhouetted against the sky. It could only be Danny; Ward caught the bright glint of his wings in the city's sulfur-yellow light, reflected from the low bellies of the clouds. It took him longer to find Harold, steadying himself on an antenna on the highest part of the roof, like he thought he was fucking King Kong or something.

Ward wondered what would happen if a lightning bolt lit up the bastard.

"You're _broken,_ Harold!" Danny yelled across the space between them. "What's wrong with you? The people who should love you most, don't love you at all. It's not because of them. _You've_ done that."

"What do you know? You're nothing but a child," Harold sneered, "just a screwed-up little kid, reaching above his place in the world. You never were as special as you thought. Let me show you, boy." 

Harold leaned away from the antenna, and Ward stared, his hands slipping on the gun in the rain. His head pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Was his dad going to _jump?_

And then Harold curled forward, his body contorting in visible pain, as something strange and dark tore through the shoulders of his suit.

Ward was frozen in place, watching the dark and dripping wings unfurl from Harold's spine.

"See?" Harold gasped out, as Danny stood stunned, staring in a mirror of Ward's own shock. "The Hand gave me this. You _aren't_ special, Iron Fist. And you're going to die up here."

He launched himself from the antenna. Danny stumbled backward as Harold slammed into him. Harold's wings trailed streamers of blood or worse.

Ward stepped out from under the overhanging roof, trying to get a good angle on them with the gun. There was no longer any question of shooting Harold. He was trying to kill Danny. There was no choice. It was just a matter of getting a clear shot, which he _couldn't_ , with Danny in the way.

Danny gasped in pain. Harold slammed him into the roof and as Danny went down hard, Harold stumbled backward. The wings were throwing him off balance; unlike Danny, he wasn't used to them. But Danny was down and Harold was still standing, reaching to tear off a loose strut from the antenna array.

Ward's imagination supplied all too many things Harold could do to Danny with that. The backs of his legs hit the rooftop balustrade. Finally, he had a good angle, but rain trickled into his eyes and blood ran hot down the back of his neck. 

He squeezed the trigger anyway. The sharp bark of the gun sent a bolt of pain through his head.

Harold staggered. The antenna strut fell from his hand, clattering to the rooftop. He turned, spreading his wings for balance. 

"Ward," he said, and there wasn't even any surprise. "I suppose it's an age-old tale, isn't it? Father against son. And you were always going to lose."

He launched himself into the air and dived, like a stooping falcon. Ward snapped off a wild shot that had no chance of hitting, and then Harold struck him -- a glancing blow, but enough to send him stumbling over the edge of the balustrade.

Fifty stories of empty air opened up beneath him.

He was looking up, so he saw Danny dive off the roof. Harold swooped away, but Danny was beating his wings, a faint glow limning every feather, bright against the sky. Danny dived through the rain -- falling -- they were both falling, and Ward wanted to tell him to stop, to pull up; there was no need for both of them to bash their brains out on the sidewalk below --

Then Danny's arms closed around him. Danny clung to him in the rain, wings spread wide, his arms wrapping around Ward and pulling Ward against his chest. They were still falling at a terrifying velocity. Danny downbeat with a tremendous thrust that Ward felt through the muscles in Danny's arms and chest and shoulders, and Danny screamed in pain. His wings twisted horrifyingly backward.

"Danny --" Ward gasped out. He was going to say something like _I'm not worth it,_ but he couldn't get out more than that. He didn't want to die. Not like this.

"Just hold still," Danny panted, burying his head in Ward's shoulder. He was beating his wings desperately, trying to slow them, and each beat sent feathers flying, with speckless of blood trailing behind. He was breaking his own wings, trying to stop their wild descent.

Over Danny's shoulder, past Danny's flying curls, Ward glimpsed Harold diving after them. _You son of a bitch,_ Ward thought. Dad was willing to paste himself all over the sidewalk if it stopped them -- because, of course, he had every expectation of coming back afterwards.

_You might be able to come back from the dead, Dad, but we can still make sure you die first._

He still had the gun in his hand. Past Danny's shoulder, past Danny's frantically beating wings, he raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. This time, he wasn't aiming at Harold's body, but at the much broader target of his wings.

It took every remaining bullet in the clip, but Harold veered wildly off course as his damaged right wing stopped responding.

Slamming into the side of the Rand building at the speed he was traveling was more than enough to account for a third death.

They were still falling, but not at lethal velocity. They hit the sidewalk with bruising force, and Ward, on the bottom, managed to break Danny's fall, sort of.

"Ow," Ward muttered, looking up at Danny's face about four inches away from his, lips parted and eyes wide.

"Ward?" Danny gasped out.

Danny's wings arched over the two of them, a tent made of bone and feathers. Ward dropped the gun and reached out a hand without thinking, touching the rain-slick softness of Danny's feathers. He'd thought the feather in his desk drawer was soft, but Danny's actual wings were somewhere beyond that, slippery and soft and alive.

"Ward?" Danny said, his voice quieter now. His face was so close that his breath ghosted over Ward's lips. And then Ward's questing hand must have touched something painful, because Danny hissed and pulled back, his wing jerking away.

"Sorry!" Ward said.

"No, it's just ... I never did that before. Ouch."

Danny sat up, straddling Ward's lap. His wings sprawled all around them in a welter of feathers. There were feathers all over the sidewalk too. It was a wonder he wasn't bald.

Then Danny's friend Claire ran up to them, yelling about police and explosions and domestic terrorism and _How do you get me into these things, Rand?!_ \-- and Ward stumbled to his feet, pulling at Danny's arm.

*

They regrouped at Claire's apartment. Ward wasn't sure if Danny's friends wanted him there, exactly, but nobody tried to throw him out. He sat largely unnoticed in a chair at the end of the couch while Danny's other friend Colleen made tea in the kitchen, and Claire examined Danny's wings as he sat meekly and stress-molted on her couch.

His wings were sprawling all over the place, and every now and then Claire's probing fingers hit something sore. Danny was stoic overall, almost worryingly so (Ward didn't like to think about what that implied about the rest of Danny's life), but his face had never stopped being as expressive as it was in childhood. He could hold rock still, but he couldn't suppress those visible flickers of pain.

Ward kept wanting to reach out every time Danny got one of those little pained expressions. Like there was any way to soothe the amount of pain he'd caused Danny at this point. He clasped his hands between his knees and clenched his teeth against the skyrocketing pain at the base of his skull. It felt like he had to hold his head very carefully still, or it would fall off. 

He tried not to think about his dad pasted across the side of the Rand building, wings and all. One for the papers, all right. At least they had a few days to deal with the remains before Harold came back. Cremation seemed like a good idea: let's see the bastard come back from _that,_ he thought vindictively. He really, _really_ wasn't looking forward to coping with the media circus in the morning, though.

"This is a sentence I never imagined myself saying, but I think your wings are sprained," Claire said, and Ward looked up. "Not too badly. If this was your arm, I'd say elevate and ice it, and take an anti-inflammatory." She sighed. "I'll get you some ibuprofen. I have ice in the freezer, but maybe not enough."

"I can buy a bag of ice," Ward offered, wanting to do something, anything, to be useful. He started to stand up, then sat down abruptly as the world spun.

Danny lurched forward, starting to reach out. One of his wings whacked a lamp on the end table, knocking it off with a tremendous crash. Danny promptly sat back down. 

"Sorry, Claire," he said meekly. "Ow. Ward, are you okay?"

"Fine," Ward got out, pressing his forehead against his palm. His head felt like it was going to explode.

"He's got a concussion at the very least." Claire moved over to the end of the couch, shifting Danny's wing aside so she could sit down. "Ward, let me look at this. You really should go to the hospital."

"I'm fine," Ward muttered.

"Yes, I can see that," she said, sound exasperated. Her fingers probed mercilessly across the base of his skull, and he suddenly had a lot of sympathy for Danny with Claire groping around his wings. He managed to keep his mouth shut, but heat surged through the bones of his skull.

"I don't feel anything except bruising, but head injuries can be hell," Claire said bluntly. "Ward, are you currently experiencing headaches or dizziness?"

"Not much," Ward said. He was aware of Danny leaning in, looking anxious, as Colleen came back from the kitchen with ice wrapped in towels.

"I'll take that as 'I am in excruciating pain but won't admit it,'" Claire said dryly. "Colleen, could I get one of those over here?"

"Danny needs it," Ward said, his hands clasped against his forehead.

"Ice is not a critical national resource." Claire's body moved against him, and coolness pressed against the back of his neck. "You should take some ibuprofen too. It might help reduce your chances of actual brain damage, not that anyone I know in the superhero world takes that seriously."

"He could have brain damage?" Danny said anxiously.

"How would you even tell?" Colleen asked, and Ward managed to raise his head to scowl at her. "Oh, don't give me that look. I'm going to get some ice from the corner store."

The door closed behind her. Ward rested his head in his hand, and although he was dimly aware of Claire moving away and someone else taking her place, he didn't actually reach the obvious conclusion until Danny said quietly, "Are you okay, Ward?"

Ward looked up. Danny's wings wrapped over them both, spilling down from his shoulders as if he couldn't hold them up -- which was basically true; Ward had helped bundle them into the backseat of Claire's car. There was a faint, light feather smell, a little bit like the smell of Danny's hair. Danny was holding the towel-wrapped ice against the back of Ward's neck, and with his other hand, holding an ice pack against his own wing.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ward lied, sitting up a little straighter. "How 'bout your wings? How do they feel?"

"Uh ... sprained," Danny said, with a wan smile.

Ward reached out, and he wasn't even sure what he had in mind until his fingers sank into the impossibly soft fluff of Danny's wings. He could feel the heat of inflamed muscles underneath. Danny's wings had dried out, but the feathers were still clumped together, plastered down against the bony understructure of his wings.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked, half-laughing. At least he wasn't offended.

"Hoping you won't be horribly sore tomorrow just from saving me," Ward said, and stroked his fingers through Danny's feathers. He didn't press hard, not wanting to damage anything that was injured. But he stroked the feathers back into place, trying to smooth down the damage without hurting him more. Under the fluffy layer of feathers, he smoothed his fingertips lightly over the strong yet delicate muscles and bones. His fingers found lingering rope burns from Bakuto's mistreatment, and brushed lightly over them, as if he could do anything to help fix what he'd damaged.

"Ward," Danny murmured. His breath stirred Ward's hair.

Ward pulled one of Danny's wings into his lap. He glanced up, moving little more than his eyes to try to keep his head from cracking open, and didn't see Claire anywhere. There were soft clinks from the bathroom.

"You don't have to," Danny said softly.

"Why? Do you have wing lice?"

Now Danny was laughing, a quiet huff.

His wings were exactly as Ward had always thought they would be, infinitely soft, but with the lithe flex of muscle and bone underneath. Even when they lay quiescent in Ward's lap, there were still soft quivers of muscle tension beneath, especially when he hit on a tense spot. They were so wonderfully _alive._ He ran his fingers through the feathers and gently massaged the hot, sore muscles beneath, and his wonder grew and grew.

Danny made a soft sound in his throat, and leaned against him. Their relaxed state -- Danny with his wing spread across Ward's lap, and Ward carefully preening his feathers -- lasted until the door opened and Colleen came in with a bag of ice. She paused, looked at them, opened her mouth as if to ask a question, and then went into the kitchen with a small shake of her head.

"Thank you, Colleen!" Danny called after her. He didn't move away.

Ward had stopped rubbing, found himself instinctively pulling away, trying to put himself ... back. Back together, back into the prison of his own skin. But Danny was still warm against him, Danny's wing still covering his lap like a living blanket, and Danny nudged him and muttered, "That feels good. Don't stop."

"Is that Colleen?" Claire asked, coming out of the bathroom. She was drying her hands on a towel. "Oh, good. Thank you. There are some plastic bags in the drawer there -- and I need to see your hands too."

"My hands are fine."

"I've been picking glass out of everyone else; I'm sure you're the same. You two!" If she found it odd to come in and find Danny with his wings all over Ward, she didn't say anything about it. "Here." She deposited a bottle of ibuprofen on the end of the coffee table. "Two now, and Danny, I want you to take another dose every four to six hours so those wings don't stiffen up on you. Honestly," she muttered under her breath, "I cannot _believe_ this is my life now."

*

They settled in for the night with Claire's mismatched collection of blankets and pillows. Colleen claimed the couch, leaving Danny and Ward the floor.

"I can leave," Ward said quietly. He'd been helping hold towel-wrapped ice packs on Danny's wings; now they were lying down on a blanket on the floor with the lights out, still mostly dressed with just their shoes off.

It made him think of sleepovers when they were kids. Strange, how easily they'd slipped back into the physical comfort they had once had with each other, all those years ago. Even when things were difficult between them, which was almost always, it had never seemed strange to have Danny lean on him or fall asleep on him. It was just how things were. Since Danny had been back, until tonight, they hadn't touched each other, and that ... _that_ was what seemed strange to him now.

"I don't want you to leave." And to emphasize the point, Danny stirred a wing and put it over him.

Something went _crash_ from somewhere nearby.

"You're paying for that!" Claire called from the bedroom.

"Sorry, Claire!" Danny called back contritely. He snugged his wing over Ward, trying to make himself more compact.

"Can you people be quiet," Colleen groaned from the couch.

A small, cluttered apartment wasn't a good fit for someone with wings, Ward thought. He'd never really thought about it from Danny's point of view, but he was thinking about it now: the way the wings made Danny not _fit_ \-- in houses, in furniture, in cars. It was always a struggle for Danny, trying to make himself small enough to fit into a world that was no longer quite the right shape for him.

Another thing the wings made difficult: lying down. Danny had one wing stretched out with the feathers halfway up the wall, the other one curled over Ward. 

"You haven't asked," Danny said quietly.

"Asked what?" It was difficult to concentrate on anything properly with Danny this close to him. With the wing over the top, it was like being wrapped up in Danny. Ward couldn't remember the last time he'd been this close with someone. There were hugs from Joy ... but this definitely was _not_ like being hugged by Joy. Even his headache no longer seemed quite as bad.

"Harold, and the wings."

The mention of Harold was like a bucket of ice water poured over him. He felt himself go rigid, and Danny said softly, "Sorry."

"It's okay." He shifted the ice pack to a new part of Danny's wing. The feathers brushed him lightly whenever he moved. It was like being in a comfortable, feathery cave. "I didn't actually wonder. I mean, I didn't know he could do that, but Dad's a fucking _zombie._ I saw him come back from the dead. So he came back with wings. It's not the weirdest thing I've seen."

Danny laughed a little, his breath ruffling Ward's hair in the dark. "Okay, fair enough. But ... you asked me once how I got _my_ wings."

Ward went still. "Yes," he said carefully.

He'd broken so many things. He didn't want to break this.

"Most people in K'un-Lun grow their wings when they're small children," Danny said. His voice was little more than a breath. Ward wondered if Colleen was also listening, then realized she probably already knew all of this. "And then as they get older, they learn how to control their wings so they only come out when they want them. That's how Bakuto and Davos's wings are."

"Bakuto and Davos have -- okay, no, sorry, questions for later, go on."

"Anyway, when I got there, obviously I was a lot older than that. If I'd been much older they probably wouldn't have been able to give me wings at all. As it was, they had to ..." His voice cracked a little. "They had to take me to the edge of death and bring me back."

"Jesus, Danny," was all Ward could say. He'd been _ten_ \-- a grieving, orphaned ten-year-old. And they'd done _that._

"I wanted it," Danny said, as if that made it better. "K'un-Lun is pretty much impossible to navigate if you can't fly. It's a major disability. But my wings, though ... they never came in right. I can't control them properly, like everyone else can. I've been telling people here that everyone in K'un-Lun has wings, and they do, but ... not ... not _all_ the time. Not even most of the time. I'm the only one like that. I'm sort of a freak that way."

He said it in a self-deprecating way that _hurt._

"Danny, if you didn't have wings, I'd be a sticky spot on the pavement right now."

Danny gave a wet little laugh -- was he _crying,_ there in the dark? And the wing over Ward tightened abruptly, half-smothering him in feathers. "I'm glad you're not," Danny said.

"Yeah, me too. Danny ..." He wasn't good at sincerity. Never had been. But he could push himself to it, when he had to -- and for Danny, who he'd hurt so badly and owed so much, it was easier than he thought it would be. "They're beautiful. Your wings. I've always thought so."

Danny made a little sound, in the dark, a soft and startled sound. "There are much prettier wings in K'un-Lun," he said after a minute. "You should see Davos's wings, they're all sharp and gorgeous, like a falcon's --"

"I don't care about Davos's wings." Ward had started lightly running his fingers between Danny's feathers again while they were talking. He moved the melting ice pack out of the way so he could get better access; he could feel Danny relaxing under the strokes. "I don't want sharp wings or falcon wings. I like _your_ wings. They're ... you."

And they were, he thought. Danny arriving in New York with wings had been a hell of a shock, even beyond the whole not-being-dead thing, but they _suited_ him. Danny without wings would just be weird and wrong, now.

Danny sighed a little and settled against him. His stubbled cheek brushed Ward's, and impulsively Ward did the thing he'd been thinking about doing for a while now, and kissed him lightly, beside his mouth.

Danny jerked; his wing spasmed against Ward.

"Sorry," Ward muttered, pulling back.

"No ... no, don't, you ..." And now Danny was kissing him, soft and gentle in the dark, his lips warm on Ward's.

"Huh," Ward said when Danny pulled back and nestled his head down against Ward's shoulder. He didn't know how to feel, or what he was feeling, exactly. He just wanted to stay here, wrapped up in Danny's wings, forever.

"I had such a crush on you when we were kids," Danny murmured.

"You ... what?"

Danny laughed quietly. "I didn't know what it was yet. I mean, I was _ten._ I just knew I looked up to you, and admired you, and wanted to be where you were, all the time."

"Yeah, I remember that part." He hesitated, fingers tracing a slow pattern between Danny's feathers. "I was a real dick to you when we were kids."

"Yeah," Danny said. He pressed a kiss to Ward's shoulder. "Let's talk about it in the morning. Or later. Or never. How's your head?"

"Not too bad." It was better as long as he didn't move, and here, in the dark, with Danny's wings wrapping him up in soft feathery warmth, he didn't plan to go anywhere.


End file.
